Something Old
by Maple Fay
Summary: "We have missed you at Downton, Mrs. Hughes..."
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** The truth? I have absolutely no idea what it is, and where it's going. I just know it had to be written down for me to be able to start thinking clearly again..._

* * *

He was in a hurry—he should have been back hours ago, they were probably finished with their tea back at home. To shown such tardiness on the day when there was still so much to do!...

He gritted his teeth in frustration and took a sharp right, colliding with a female passerby with so much force it almost struck them both down. Startled, he reached out to grasp her elbows and steady her, his heart beating much too fast for his liking.

"Forgive me, ma'am, I didn't mean to—" he started off with an apology and stopped rapidly, having taken a closer look at the woman's face for the first time. "_Mrs. Hughes!_"

He thought he saw her lips tremble at his exclamation, but she recovered quickly and gave him a warm, friendly smile. "Good afternoon, milord."

* * *

Since he was already late, there was no harm in asking her to have tea with him in a nearby shop. Feeling incredibly awkward, her held out a chair for her and waited until she settled before sitting down himself; she took neither her coat nor her gloves off, but from the paleness of her skin he could say she was much feebler than when he'd seen her last.

They were both silent, eyes surveying the interior of the tea shop, as they waited for their order to arrive; only after she poured them each a cup of tea (adding lemon, not milk, to his: exactly the way he liked it) did the atmosphere change, as if the beverage was a shield they could both hide themselves behind.

"We have missed you at Downton," he told her, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. She met his gaze bravely and openly, the way she always had.

"I've missed you too," she admitted with the smallest of smiles. "Although I daresay you have been much busier recently than myself have. I hear that congratulations are in order—to both Lady Mary and Lady Edith?"

"Indeed. I shall make sure to pass them your words, they'll both be very pleased to hear from you."

"How is the new Lady Strallan, then? And the youngest Master Crawley? You must be terribly proud of him, milord."

"They are both well... _we_ are all well," he replied, deeply touched by her consideration, given everything that had happened upon her leave from Downton. "It seems that Fate has finally got tired of pouring sadness all over our heads."

"Touch wood," she smiled at him and knocked at the underside of their table. "I have read about Mr. Bates' release, naturally... are they still with you?"

"They are. Although Mrs. Bates has been spending most of her time at the Crawley House recently. They live in a cottage about half way between the village and Downton—the arrangement is proving rather satisfactory for everyone."

She looked away, biting her lip: a gesture he hadn't seen for a long time, and one he would always associate with her. "Please give my best to both of them—_especially_ Mrs. Bates."

"Certainly." He knew before she raised her eyes back to his what her next question was going to be, and begged her silently not to ask it.

_I have to,_ she told him with her eyes, _I need to say it out loud._

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and braced himself for the hammer to fall.

It did fall—with seven simple words, uttered with utmost difficulty:

"And how about Mr. and Mrs. Carson?..."

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Yes, I'm evil. I know. Let me just tell you you're not the only ones suffering from this. I blame Elsie Hughes, appearing in my head with bits of dialogue and wanting me to construct a whole-bodied story out of them._

_Reviews are, naturally, more than appreciated._

* * *

"I have literally run into Mrs. Hughes on my way from the club today."

The gasps and shocked exclamations all but woke the child up. "You _what_?" Cora gaped at him, blinking rapidly. "Is she staying in London now? How is she?"

"She's still working?" Edith frowned a little, gently patting her protruding belly.

"Why wouldn't she be?" Mary rolled her eyes and put little Reggie down into his crib, before sitting down on her sister's bed. "_She_ had absolutely no reason to be ashamed of in all this."

Edith raised an eyebrow with a hint of mockery, but no actual malice in her face. "I thought you've always preferred Carson to Mrs. Hughes, haven't you, Mary?"

"That," Matthew Crawley's wife gritted her teeth as she raised her chin defiantly, "was _before._"

"May I just remind you that, hadn't it been for your mother-in-law, we wouldn't have found ourselves in this situation in the first place?"

"Edith," Cora chastised her younger daughter and frowned. "We should be grateful that Cousin Isobel did what she had. To think it might have gone on even further without anyone knowing, if she hadn't told us what she'd seen..."

"Exactly! Would you have wanted Mrs. Hughes to go through all that humiliation alone, not being able to tell anyone?"

"I'm sorry," Edith sighed and lay back, pressing her fingers against her temples. "This child is making me say all kinds of nonsense. If it's a girl, I'm going to name her Violet... see? There it is again! But enough of this—Papa, do you have Mrs. Hughes' address? I would very much like to contact her."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, Anthony has been insisting that we hire a new housekeeper, so I thought..."

"You would have her live and work so close to Downton? Is that even wise?"

"Why don't we ask Mrs. Hughes herself whether she would want that, or not," Cora chimed in, covering Edith's hand with hers. "She cannot be happy in London, she's never liked the place." She turned back to her husband, and gave him an encouraging smile. "What about that address, then, Robert?"

He nodded and pulled a small piece of paper of out his wallet, turning it over in his hands with an uneasy smile. "Yes, I do have it... but Edith, you couldn't possibly go all the way down to Lambeth, not in your condition!"

"We'll just have to have Mrs. Hughes visit the Grantham House, won't we, Papa?"

Mary sighed and got up to check on her son, shooting her father a knowing glance as she passed him. "Make sure to give Carson an afternoon off, or there _will_ be bloodshed."

* * *

Perhaps he should have questioned his lordship's eagerness to have him out of the house for the whole afternoon—especially after he'd overheard the maids talking about a guest having been invited over for tea—but in the end, he decided to take it for granted and run a few errands he didn't have any time for before.

He finished everything up rather quickly, and was back by the house around a quarter past five. As he turned to head down to the servants' entrance, the main door opened and a female figure stepped through them, bidding goodbye to whoever it was opening them: Thomas, most likely.

The woman didn't leave straight away, but stopped and said something to Thomas, patting his sleeve gently. Charles frowned and hovered on the topmost step, deeply intrigued by the identity of the strange guest—until he took a closer look at her dark green coat, and realized she wasn't a stranger after all.

By the time she walked down the stairs, he was already standing at the bottom, looking up, drinking her in. She'd lost weight, and there were new lines on her face: quite unsurprisingly, given everything she's been through—everything _he put her through_. She was also lost in her thoughts, her mind having wandered so far away that he actually had to catch her wrist to have her look at him.

"Elsie."

She startled and pulled her arm away forcefully, pressing her lips into a thin line, all colour draining away from her face. "I don't have anything to say to you, _Mr. Carson_," she spat out and moved to walk away. Quickly he moved to stand in front of her, blocking her way, the two steps she still hadn't stepped down off putting their faces more or less on the same level.

"Please, Elsie. You need to understand, you have to let me explain—"

"Listen to me," she interrupted him, her eyes casting thunderbolts straight onto his heart. "I don't _have_ to do _anything_, not anymore. I know what you're going to say, and I know you probably believe it to be true—but how could _I_?" She released a long, heavy breath, and shook her head, not looking him in the eye. "I should probably bid you a pleasant evening, and ask you to give my regards to your _lovely wife_, but I shan't."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she raised her gloved hand to brush it away. "Apparently, I'm not as good a liar as you are. Goodbye, Mr. Carson."

He watched her retreating figure until she disappeared around the corner, and slowly turned around, heading for the servants' entrance with his head hung low.

_How could this ever have happened to us, Elsie?..._

**TBC...**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **I believe my body has been hijacked, because I never could have devised such a plot in my own sane mind. Apologies, and thanks to everyone who managed to read through this, and leave a review._

* * *

_Seeing him like this, on the steps of Grantham House, hurt more than she could have ever imagined. She knew, naturally, that he would stay at Downton—that his lordship wouldn't let him leave, partly because of the guilt Charles felt, partly due to the responsibility he had to face—but to actually meet him, face to face, broke her heart again._

_That is, if it has ever started to mend in the first place._

_If any time had passed, if the seasons changed between then and now, she doesn't know._

* * *

_**Fifteen months earlier**_

She was tired—so, so tired. Three days of teas, dinner parties and cocktails, of guests wandering around the house and leaving one great mess in their wake. Three days of running up and down the stairs, shushing strange maids and footmen laughing too loud in the corridors, making sure the doors between male and female quarters were properly shut at night...

Just a couple of hours more, and the worst part of it will all be over, she told herself, clenching her jaw as she moved swiftly around the ground floor, looking for Charles—nobody had seen him for the last hour or so, and since the party was now in full bloom the butler simply _had _to be present. After all, she didn't believe he held Lady Edith in lesser regards than Lady Mary—and he had done everything he could to make _her_ engagement party a thrilling and wonderful one...

"Mrs. Hughes? Are you busy?"

So much for finding him now. "Not at all, Mrs. Crawley. How can I help?"

Isobel Crawley held up her hand, wrapped haphazardly in what looked like a slightly used handkerchief. "It seems that my son is a little too enthusiastic tonight. He managed to break a champagne glass, and I cut myself, rather badly, I'm afraid. There's a maid clearing the glass up already, but I was wondering if you could help me out?..."

"Certainly," Elsie nodded, her whole mind focused on the task at hand. "If you please follow me..."

* * *

_Why didn't she go and get the bandage herself? It would have been much more appropriate to have Mrs. Crawley wait in the small library until she came back and dressed her wound._

_The heartbreak would have been just as crushing, but perhaps something could have been salvaged out of the debris of her life._

_Too late to think about it now, when everything lies in ruins._

* * *

Strange, muffled sounds were coming out of her sitting room. It should have stopped her, make her turn Mrs. Crawley around and have her wait in the emptied servants' hall—but she was exhausted, and in a hurry, and wanted only to find Charles and have him hold her until she fell asleep, and...

...and there he was, in her very own sitting room, with a maid whose name Elsie didn't even remember, very much undressed and sprawled across his lap...

...and Mrs. Crawley reacted before Elsie had a chance to, and started to shout at them, and then O'Brien appeared out of nowhere and peeked inside, her face going white as soon as she caught the sight of Charles and that little... _thing_...

...and suddenly she was back upstairs, sitting in a chair in a room she didn't quite recognize through the black haze surrounding her head, and Lady Grantham was there, holding her hand while Mrs. Crawley talked and talked and talked, and his lordship's face was as pale as Miss O'Brien's had been, his eyes burning as he gritted his teeth and stomped off out of the room, probably to find Charles...

...and then Lady Mary came in, and kneeled on the floor next to her, paying absolutely no attention to her brand new dress as she turned to her mother and stated firmly, "He would have to go. If Papa won't make him, I will."

...and then Elsie heard her own voice, quiet and dull and resonating like an echo inside a well:

"No, milady. You don't have to do this. It is I who should go."

* * *

_How could she ever go back in there after seeing all that? How could she have sat on that very settee and worked through the linen rota, remembering oh so vividly every shape, every colour, every sound?_

_It would have driven her mad within a week._

* * *

"Elsie, please..."

She went past him, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. He caught up with her, touched her elbow; she broke free of his hold, and from the look in his eyes she could tell he thought she would slap him across the face.

She wanted to. Very much. Almost as much as she wanted to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be alright, even though she didn't believe it herself.

"I don't have anything to say to you, Charles Carson. Nor do I wish to listen to anything you might want to tell me."

"You have to! You couldn't possibly believe a word of this! I can't even remember most of... She... she must have spiked up my wine, or..."

"Since when does the butler drink wine before the most important party of the year is over?"

He hung his head low, his chest heaving. At any other time she would have been worried about his heart acting up again, but right now she couldn't have cared less.

"I was reckless, Elsie, reckless and tired and stupid, and... what else would you like me to say?"

"Nothing. There is nothing you could say that would make me forget about it." She swallowed hard and raised a hand to her face, trying to hide it from him, to deny the pain and anger. "That girl told his lordship you've been pursuing her ever since she set foot in this house. That you'd followed her around for three days, dropping all sorts of hints, and when you cornered her downstairs _you_ gave _her_ the wine..."

"Elsie, you must know it's all a lie!" His head snapped up as he grabbed her by the shoulders, his feverish, pleading eyes boring into hers. "And his lordship _believed_ her?..."

"You have to admit—it is usually the man who spikes up a woman's drink, not the other way around," she whispered, closing her eyes and praying for strength and composure. "And the girl hasn't got a single flaw on her character, whereas..." She paused and bit her lip.

"...whereas I had been on stage, which could have led to any kinds of things, is that what you meant to say? My God, Elsie, that was _ages_ ago! And his lordship had known about it for years now!"

"It is quite a different thing to know something had happened a long time ago and been long since put down to rest, and to have it come back from the grave and haunt you."

Charles let go of her shoulders and stepped back, his face drawn and ashen as he let his arms hang loosely by his sides.

"What must I do to make it all go away, Elsie? Tell me, and I will."

* * *

_She could have asked him then to resign his post and go away with her. He wouldn't have a character, but she wouldn't have minded working for them both, for as long as she had the strength, as long as there was a place that would have her._

_She could have asked him to forget about the girl, to turn away from her shame and his responsibility and live the life they'd imagined long ago, together, always together, with nothing in the world to separate them._

_But she knew deep down inside that his sense of duty and honour would never allow him to do that._

_And as much as she wanted to believe in every word he said, her heart was a great, raw wound, and it would not stop weeping._

* * *

"I think we both know what you _must_ do."

"Tell me that you believe me."

"I cannot."

She turned away and left, passing the ever closed door to her sitting room without a single look.

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

"Would that be all, milord?"

"Yes, thank you, Carson." He shook his head, his fingers strumming a beat over the armrest. "And Carson?"

"Milord?"

"What time did you get back?"

A pause, long enough for Robert to guess the answer. "A quarter past five, milord."

"So… you know."

"Yes, milord. I do." The hurt and pain managed to get through the carefully built up walls of professionalism and integrity.

"Did you talk to her?"

"I believe talking _at her_ would be a better way to describe our altercation, milord."

A sour, lopsided smile. "I know precisely what you mean."

* * *

"_Carson is still with us, Mrs. Hughes," he'd answered carefully, holding her gaze, this time silently pleading that she wouldn't interrupt him. "As for Mrs. Carson—"_

"_Milord. Please don't make me regret my manners."_

* * *

"Milord, I was wondering if I could—"

"Yes, Carson, of course you can." He stood up and faced his butler with a furrowed brow, two pairs of eyes clashing in a silent duel. "But this will be your last chance."

"I am aware of that, milord."

"As you should be."

* * *

The house was old, battered and grey, and the thought that it was him that brought this upon her made his heart clench painfully.

He had to wait very, very long before the door opened upon his persistent knocking, and when it did and he saw the hostility written on her face, he almost backed off. Almost.

"Why have you come?" Her voice sounded tired, worn out, thin and broken—like a crumpled piece of paper thrown into a fireplace to be devoured by the flames. "There is nothing left to say."

"For you, perhaps. You have never given me the courtesy of speaking my mind."

She shook her head and averted her gaze, as if she was trying to forget that he was here, real and solid, flesh and blood, demanding an answer from her, asking to be allowed to speak.

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

"I disagree."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, rubbing her left temple with her fingertips. "And if I close this door right now?"

"I shall stay here until you reopen them, and agree to hear me out."

She shook her head, but stepped aside and let him through. "What could you possibly want to tell me, after everything that happened?"

* * *

"_Are you sure?" Lord Grantham gaped and stood up, putting his paper aside, while Cora sat up straight, frowning. Richard Clarkson nodded curtly and took a proffered glass of Scotch, swirling its content gently before downing it all in one gulp._

"_Positive, milord."_

* * *

She was staring out of the window, arms wrapped around her body, hugging herself tightly as she listened to his quiet words and looked at the rain-drenched trees outside. She said not one word the entire time.

"Do you believe me?" he asked her quietly in the end, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands.

"I do."

His head snapped up, a flicker of hope coming to life in the depths of his eyes. "Then will you…?"

"Do not ask of me what I could not do, Charles Carson."

His shoulders slumped down a little, but his expression was that of quiet resignation, and understanding. "I'm glad you let me explain, at any rate."

She turned to look at him for the first time since he started talking, a single tear track glistening on the pale skin of her cheek. "I'm glad you made me listen."

He stood up and tried to take a step in her direction—but stopped mid-motion as her eyes flashed with fear and anger. "Will we ever be able to talk again, like we used to do?"

"Nothing is ever going to be the way it used to."

He picked up his hat and turned it around in his hands, unable to look at her any longer. "Will you be accepting Lady Strallan's offer?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I really need to think about it."

"Of course," he nodded grimly, and put his hat on, turning towards the door. "I simply wish I could see you, from time to time, for however short a time. Goodbye, Elsie."

"Charles."

He stopped with his back to her, tensed in anticipation.

"I have always loved you."

The lump in his throat was suddenly too hard and heavy to swallow, so he spoke around it, hoarsely, almost inaudibly, "And I you."

**TBC...**


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** I cannot honestly promise you this will be the last time I've ever put you through something like that—but believe me when I say that this story has been as painful for me to write as it was for you to read. Thank you for staying with me to the end._

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

They see each other more often once she starts working for the Strallans. Never at Downton, not for the first year at least: he comes over with a message from Lord or Lady Grantham, which could have easily been delivered by post, or even discussed over the phone, and stays for tea. They have it in the servants' hall, though, never in her parlour. They sit across each other and sip the hot beverage in silence, eyes locked, all the other servants keeping polite distance between themselves and the quiet couple.

_There's a story behind all this_, a rumour rises one day, when it's her afternoon off and the maids become a little bolder in their whispered conversations. _A love story._

The idea is met with frowns and quirked eyebrows. _But isn't he married? Doesn't he have a daughter?_

_Ah, yes—but where IS his wife?_

_And why doesn't the child look like him?..._

* * *

She visits Downton for the first time more than a year and a half since London, many months after she "came back". (_She never comes back, not really, not the way she had been._) She turns the knob on the backdoor without thinking, lets herself in, breathes in the scent of this place. She'd been dreaming of it almost every night _since_; perhaps that's why she manages to keep her feelings in check now.

The servants' hall is almost empty, save for Anna, now wearing a dark dress and a key ring at her waist, feeding a small child with a spoon. The girl looks up at Elsie with eyes that don't resemble anyone she knows, and frowns.

There are tears and shaky smiles as Anna runs to her—an activity most unbecoming for a housekeeper, but Elsie couldn't possibly blame her for that now—takes her hand, urges her to sit in her old chair. She declines politely, eyes fixed on the child. "So this is—"

Anna nods and wipes the child's face with a clean cloth. "Elizabeth Carson. Yes."

_Elizabeth Carson._

She remembers all too well how she first heard that name.

* * *

"_She's got my name. That's the least I could do."_

"_Even though you know... you knew...?"_

"_Would you have me forsake her? Turn my back on her, especially now that her mother is gone?"_

_He knows her answer, so she doesn't waste the time to say it out loud. "What did you call her?"_

"_Elizabeth."_

_It feels like a slap across the face, hot and burning and making her want to cry, to scream her anger out at the Heavens, for all the injustice of the world._

* * *

When he finally comes down and enters the servants' hall, the child is sitting next to her, watching mesmerized as she scribbles down some notes in Anna's book, explaining in a quiet voice the things nobody has had the time (or the knowledge) to tell to the girl. He stops at the doorstep and takes the scene in, his heart breaking at the wrongness of it, and the easiness with which it could have been rearranged into an image of happiness he'd imagined for himself many year ago.

She senses his presence and looks at him, outwardly calm, torrents of emotions locked in the depths of her eyes. "Mr. Carson."

The little girl brightens up and reaches out to him, grinning. "Daddy!"

_There it is again: the almost uncontrollable urge to scream._

* * *

"You are good with her," she tells him as they walk slowly down the path leading to the village, him having offered to walk her back to the station.

"I try. It wouldn't do her any good if I left her on her own."

She swallows, clasps her hands together. "Any news on...?" She leaves the question hanging; they both know it would be too much for her to finish it.

"Not for the last four month. She'd been seen in Brighton before that, with the same man; where they went from there, I cannot say."

"Do you suppose she'll ever come back? For Lizbeth? For..." (_She doesn't say 'you'; neither of them believes it could happen, anyway._)

"I don't think so, no."

They walk together, perfectly synchronized, the way they had always been. The sun is bright and cold above their heads, or perhaps just bright, and the coldness they feel comes from them.

But that is only true on the outside. Because he knows how blazingly hot her heart could be, and she knows he would never stop loving her, even though they aren't free to speak about it anymore.

Things could still work out for them, perhaps: but it would have to be because of other people's suffering, and they don't want that, they never wanted that, not between her honour and his sense of responsibility. They could probably hold grudges: against the world, against each other; she more than him (_why hadn't he asked her when he had the time, why did they decide to wait, to keep everything quiet, nonexistent, not giving themselves any ground to stand on and protest when they needed it_): but that would be unwise, and make them even more bitter than they already are.

So they don't dwell on the past.

They don't discuss the future either. Secretly, they both hope they'd get to "retire together" after all: it won't happen soon, if it ever does, but the road hasn't been completely closed off yet. There are still so many things to consider, though: the little girl bearing him name, though not his blood; the woman, somewhere in the world, who had probably long since thrown away a ring Elsie should have been given many years ago; the looks people would give both of them if they crossed the line between surmise and certainty.

It is quite different to be a lover and a mistress, she thinks, counting her steps and breathing deeply in hope to catch a whiff of his cologne on the wind.

Being a lover is about how you feel, not what you do.

* * *

"When will I see you?" he asks as they stand on the platform, a polite, proper distance kept between their bodies. She focuses on a little wrinkle in the corner of his collar, wishes to smooth it away with her fingers, to lean in and let herself go.

Forget about the world. Forget everything that happened. Go back to the way they were—old and old-fashioned, comfortably stuck in a moment, a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime together, when how they felt was the most important thing in the world.

"Not soon enough," she says and blinks, looking at the train that crawls onto the track, puffing smoke and enveloping them in a cloud of steam for a second or two. She remembers something, words said very long ago—it feels like another life, another time, another place—and smiles at him, holding out her hand. "Don't tell me you'll miss me."

"I will, Mrs. Hughes. Very much."

She lets him hold her hand a little longer than strictly necessary, and squeezes his fingers before letting go.

This may be everything they ever get to share. It had been enough, once.

It will never be enough again.

She doesn't let herself hope.

But she knows she'll always be waiting for him, and he for her.

All wounds turn into scars, eventually.

**The End**


End file.
